Rosy Cole

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Rosy Cole was born and educated in the Shires of England. Her writing career started in her teens. Four apprentice works eventually led to publication of two novels. Life intervened, but she returned to authorship in 2004. She has worked as a Press Officer and Publisher's Reader. Among widespread interests, she lists history, opera, musicals, jazz, the arts, drawing and painting, gemmology, homoeopathy and alternative therapies. Theology also is an abiding interest. As a singer, she's performed alongside many renowned musicians and has run a music agency which specialised in themed 'words-and-music' programmes, bringing her two greatest passions together. Rosy's first book of poetry, THE TWAIN, Poems of Earth and Ether, was published in April 2012, National Poetry Month, and two other collections are in preparation. As well as the First and Second Books in the Berkeley Series, she has written several other historical titles and one of literary fiction. She is currently working on the Third Book in the Berkeley Series. All her books are now published under the New Eve imprint. Rosy lives in West Sussex with her son, Chris, and her Springador, Jack, who keeps a firm paw on the work-and-walkies schedule!

One (Tax-Effective) Lump Sum, Or Two, Vicar?















One of the ongoing and little appreciated consequences of Henry VIII's defiance of the Pope and his break with wealthy Catholicism, means that Protestants have inherited responsibility for the upkeep of England's heritage churches which, despite some governmental assistance, can be a millstone. Thankfully they were built for the greater glory of God, and to last, but week to week upkeep can run into thousands of pounds. This fun poem concerning one zealous priest was written with affection several years ago. I'm sure readers will recognise the inimitable Tom Hollander in the images in his role as Rev.


Zeal for your house consumes me. Psalm 69:9


We’re looking on the bright side

That’s where we cast our net

It’s what the vicar tells us

Will get him out of debt

The choir’s in perfect harmony

The organ chords resound

But if coffers are not rustling

There’s no joy to be found


We’ve given in our widow’s mite

But still it’s not enough

Donations should be paper

Any other kind is duff

So forget about the small change

Dig deep in purse and pocket

If the tax-man doesn’t take it

The vicar’s sure to dock it!


Now those who’ve sung at weddings

Will know the cleric’s drill

A captive congregation

Means collection plates should fill

He tells of crumbling plaster

And windows that need masons

Without a calm restraining hand

He’d be passing round large basins!


Some think an entrance turnstile

Would be a good idea

The takings would flow freely

And add up year by year

Such measures smack of mammon

And leave the punter skint

With work like that in progress

We should just install a Mint!


So render unto Osborne

The sums that must be found

And pray our Talents work for good

Unburied in the ground

With Faith and Hope and Charity

Investment’s sure to double

But those who gather into banks

Heap up a hoard of trouble


You can’t fault the Rev's intentions

His heart’s for God and Church

Without his glorious vision

We’d all be in the lurch

He’s anchor-man and mainstay

And shepherd of the flock

He keeps a strength of purpose

To make sure we build on rock.


So we’re looking on the bright side

We’re hauling in our catch

The nets are fairly breaking

And debt we can despatch

Those future generations

Who want their sins forgiven

Can join with us who bless him

And have their Hope in Heaven!
















Photo: Giles Keyte




© Copyright Rosy Cole 2009. 2012, 2013, and 2015

Recent Comments
Katherine Gregor
Brilliant! I love it!
Sunday, 31 May 2015 19:27
Rosy Cole
Thank you! Please you enjoyed :-)
Monday, 01 June 2015 15:54
Stephen Evans
Funny! reminds me of this famous American poem: Read More
Sunday, 31 May 2015 22:39
2043 Hits

Good For You!


  Removing the Thorn - P J Crook courtesy of Bridgeman Images


Some time ago, a colleague in a now defunct writers' forum, highlighted the paradox of how self-interest can masquerade as altruism. She quoted Ezra Bayda:  '...whenever we feel an urgency or longing to help, it’s often rooted in the fear of facing our own unhealed pain.'

That it may be so, can't be disputed and the blogger was scrupulously honest in examining her own motives, but I'd want to question the other side of Bayda's proposal.

What is so suspect about the empathy, or insight, that arises from going through, or having been through, the same kind of experiences? In externalising and refocusing our concerns, we can mend ourselves and maybe help to mend others, too. The endeavour itself is a learning curve and a transforming process. To claim, as Bayda apparently does, that it has no power to change us or enable inner growth is neither my personal experience nor observation of others'.

The Golden Rule suggests that we do to others as we would have them do to us . We love our neighbour as ourselves. We are linked. It's a mirror image, a multiple, ongoing, mirror image. We are interdependent. It's meant to be that way.

Yes, we do recognise fear in others because it is also in us. Mightn't that be true compassion? The most constructive form of aversion therapy, perhaps? Aren't we here to try to make the best of the hand we're dealt and 'contain the chaos', make some kind of sense of it?  

There is a lovely metaphor in circulation among clergy concerning a banquet in the halls of heaven where the guests, seated at one long table, are left to contemplate with dismay the wonderful feast placed before them. It turns out that the cutlery is too long to supply their own mouths! All that promise is destined to disappoint, until they hit on the solution of ministering to the person seated opposite so that the occasion metamorphoses into pure delight and enjoyment.

It is a documented, yet logically unexplained fact, that there are times, in extremis, in the heat of battle, or persecution, a human being will actually choose to lay down his life for someone he believes to be a worthier candidate for living than himself. This is not the same thing as fighting for freedom, or king or country, and being willing to place one's life on the line in a worst case scenario. Nor can it be compared with a death-and-glory bid in some ideological cause which is anathema to anything that passes for love.

I readily concede that there can be unhealthy instances of identity transference, hostage issues, possession, and ego-building at the expense of others, but feel sure the primary impulse is a sound one. Knowing when to offer help, and when to withdraw, is key. If we're going for the 'golden glow', we might as well forget it, because effective help is not necessarily recognised (on either side!) and is not always appreciated. Not everyone in crisis wants to be helped deep down.

In the overt quest for self-development and the solipsist outlook that goes with it, the western world seems to have hamstrung itself by believing that any form of altruism reflects hypocrisy. When our pop culture idols try to inject meaning into their empty existences and set some kind of karma in train for all they have been given, the scream of 'publicity' is loud and clear. But who are we to judge? How do we know they haven't had some Damascene revelation? If it's simply that their consciences have been smitten by humanitarian responsibility, does that trash their motive or nullify the good they do?

What appears to rule here is the bias of a mythical norm, a kind of mean that is purged of our shadier motives. Well, we're human, prone to bumbling idiocy half the time. We're not perfect. And the only way we're going to 'come good', sooner or later, is by acting out of our better nature, subscribing to a common value.

Our parents and grandparents – who weren't hidebound by the relativistic climate that is supposed to have freed us – used to have a saying: 'Do right because it is right.'

The blogger challenged our relationship with 'doing good'. What new resolutions did we need to form?

Personally, I am ever conscious of the pitfalls she spoke of, but at the end of the day, I can hand it all over to God and trust that through his agency good will emerge, healing will take place, maybe a quite different good from what I envisaged and one that, in the apparent scheme of things, has no connection with me.

So my maxim is the wisdom attributed both to St Augustine and to St Ignatius Loyola: 'Work as if everything depends on you and pray as if everything depends on God.'

In my book, that's awesome teamwork! 


© Copyright Rosy Cole 2010 and 2015

Recent Comments
Sue Martin Glasco
Do unto others often helps us decide what to do when in doubt. I do not always have the nerve or energy, but it is a comforting an... Read More
Monday, 18 May 2015 16:52
Rosy Cole
Yes, I think you're right, Sue. Simple is always best. In this era of the internet, when wisdom gets passed around so freely, wh... Read More
Wednesday, 20 May 2015 13:53
Stephen Evans
Well said ... Read More
Monday, 18 May 2015 22:52
2155 Hits

Lost In Translation



A poem for the Feast of the Ascension



He spoke of leaving

scripture as being fulfilled

Did we sense the change?

He'd proved a Resurrection

that was his, not ours


Every filament 

was radiant with new life

Something had happened

Nothing was as it had been

The Rubicon crossed


His transparent eye

beheld another country

Jerus'lem conquered

but the Romans still held sway

and their coin was king


Glory fled the tomb

We looked back with nostalgia

laughing children and

lepers cleansed, the lame striding

toward a future


Greater miracles

he promised we'd do than his

We couldn't see it

not without his live person

nerving our belief


He drew us into

the beam of his new vision

Not absence, presence

Flesh must lose reality

Spirit is power


In cloud he lost us,

or we him: we watched transfixed

to see him gaining 

paradise at our expense

At least it felt so.


Why no bitter pain?

No agony of parting?

It was as if his

heart, mind and limbs were ours now

torment held in check


The ether penned him,

while angels held us captive

to a vital theme

upon the cusp of longing

and expectancy...




© Copyright Rosy Cole 2010 and 2015

Recent Comments
Well, I'll start again. Of course, you couldn't know what that means. I had started a comment on this fine poem and the power went... Read More
Friday, 15 May 2015 04:38
Rosy Cole
Glad if it helped at all, Charlie. And thanks for saying so. But don't go putting the Fire out next Sunday week! :-)
Friday, 15 May 2015 11:00
1633 Hits

The Surly Bonds




'Go West, young man.'

He had read Westward Ho! as a child. But he'd never been one to ply with the tide, since being caned for scrumping in the vicar's orchard when his brother was the culprit.

There were dark rumblings in Europe, though Mr Chamberlain had assured everyone that war had been averted. Samuel watched his old school companions go, one by one; Horniman, his rival in Latin class, Tom Osborne, the baker's boy who had not a care in the world beyond the equilibrium of the breadbasket strapped to his handlebars. They all went, conscripts mostly; some volunteering.

Then his brother signed up to the RAF and started soaring the ether. Edward, who had let Samuel take the rap for stealing pears, was suddenly a hero and their father's pride.

The old man had been gassed in the trenches at Ypres and decorated for bravery. His belly still suffered the sting of sulphur when he consumed any but the blandest food. He'd seen terrible things, heard blasts that drowned out the Munch scream for the whole of Eternity. He was buttoned up about that, didn't say much, but when the miasma of depression filled his nostrils, he would retreat for a while. A slovenly sock, an untied shoelace, rhubarb crumble laced with too little sweetener, could trigger a tirade. They watched their mother choke on humility. 

Sam could see no sense in mindless violence, with the aftermath ricocheting from one generation to the next. Besides, the teachings of the New Testament, which he had taken to heart, were on his side. His father might bleat about sacrifice and the defence of the homeland, but where was the victory in violence and bloodshed and endlessly spinning grief? While it might be possible to hold polar opposite views with integrity, they couldn't be found in one and same person. Yet it was a shameful thing to have a 'conchy' in the family. That Sam was summoned to a tribunal and called upon to defend his beliefs stoutly did not mend matters at home.

With a brilliant, though incomplete, academic record, Sam took himself off to seek sanctuary with an aunt some miles away, while he found work congenial to his engineer's brain in a local office. Within a year, the chance came for promotion to the firm's outpost in the Midlands and, upon warm recommendation, Sam applied and was transferred. Here was the chance of a fresh start. A whole new horizon!



One sun-shy September afternoon, with the leaves flickering down, he left his ancestral pastures behind and the quiet village in ochre Ham Stone, with hollyhocks and rose trellises and a big Elizabethan mansion, and boarded a train bound for the Midlands, wheels turning punctually and familiar scenes slipping backwards into the past.



He knew he had to make good. If his peers were ready to die for the nation, Sam had to offer something doubly constructive.

It wasn't difficult to prove himself in his chosen career, but the war dragged on and soldiers were dying in their thousands. When Edward was captured and imprisoned in Stalag Luft III, Sam's conviction intensified that 'keeping the home fires burning' wasn't enough.

Soon, he had fallen in with a crowd of young people at a church in town. Among them was Zinnie, everyone's idea of Prosper Mérimée's Carmen. She was a recent convert, still flushed with an evangelical zeal Sam could only admire. How pale his own witness seemed beside it! She was the antithesis of little Constance, the demure damsel who went into service at Tintinhull, his abandoned sweetheart back home.

With Sam's own handsome looks in the Latin style, he caught Zinnie's eye. He wasn't local and had a touch of the exotic with his regional burr. She thought she should enlist him in her campaign for the Lord.

Zinnie was scathing of the rampant evil in the world, to which she was unduly sensitive, and scornful of moral frailty, but mellowed after a session of raucous choruses when she felt part of the human race. It took Sam a long while to figure out that he had formed a connection with her which onlookers in those days regarded as courting. It behoved him to do the honourable thing that her reputation (and his own) should not be compromised. He was a man with a strong sense of duty and rigorously stuck to his word throughout his life. The turn of events must have been the hand of God.

Within weeks of this epiphany, he applied for a special licence and stood at the altar beside Zinnie and said: 'I do' and 'I will' and meant it. This was his mission in life. No one promised it would be easy. The war had ended and New Jerusalem was in focus again. Everywhere couples were marrying and setting out to establish a peaceful and prosperous future.

It turned out that Zinnie's passion was more about Zinnie than anyone else and that her hotline to God was no joke. She knew what ought to be thought, said, felt and acted in the service of Zinnie. It was her due. Those who fell short were on their way to Hell, they could be sure of that. Ailments of body and mind kept her in control and secluded her from an accusing community. She was blessed with a generous quota of domestic skills which she struggled to apply in unspoken penance. When their daughter was born it seemed that a more equable disposition might prevail. But motherhood soon became a new weapon in her arsenal for gaining ascendancy over father and child.

Sam was so bound into the illusion of her martyrdom, that he often blamed himself for failing to promote her happiness, despite a long working day and an hour of cycling each way to spare the budget. The nation was all but bankrupt and no one in the village had a vehicle, except Hare at the post office who ran a taxi service to the better off on high days and holidays.

Sam's toughest assignment was their daughter's wedding. Guests remarked how miserable he looked in the photos. They didn't know he was going to have to tame the tiger alone, maybe for another thirty or forty years. There would be no tacit ally. He never saw his daughter alone after that, lest there be jealous reprisals and fearsome scenes that might wreak irreversible havoc. Those who have never endured this kind of tyranny should not imagine there's an option to walk away. Mortals like Zinnie have a genius for wringing pity from those around them since they find it impossible to reveal their inner landscape and contain its torments alone.

Sam bore it all until his health began seriously to break down. At this point, by some strange quirk of fate, Constance had traced him and they started writing to one another. Then her letters ceased. The day he heard that she had died was devastating. "You could be looking at another ten years with any luck," said his doctor, "if you have a bypass." Sam had lived long enough to know that for him there was no bypassing grief and anguish and loss of the Promised Land in this life. 

One frosty January morning, just before his seventy-fifth birthday and four months short of their Golden Wedding, Sam drove his car to the dealership for a service. It was a major inspection and would take a couple of hours or so. He was some distance from home and, instead of returning, ambled down to the old railway station where steam trains had been brought back into commission by enthusiasts who had formed a Trust.

It was just as it had been in the days long ago, when he had forsaken the groves of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table to carve out his destiny. He could admire those engines, fully restored to pristine glory and running again. He knew all about wheels turning, pistons and gauges and machinery running on prescribed lines. He hadn't fought on the battlefield, or on the sea, or in the air, but he had stuck to his guns and had held the fort for society. By the grace of God, he had contained the tide of consequences and held it all together. He had expected no one else to shoulder his responsibilities. 

It was a nostalgic interlude. He was hardly aware of the cold seeping into his bones. When he got back to the garage, he was in high spirits, laughing and joking with the salespeople as he took possession of the keys and walked out to his car. He engaged reverse gear, moved backwards, but the vehicle didn't stop... till it crashed. A customer of the garage, who happened to be a doctor, ran out on to the forecourt. "There's no sign of life," he said. "He would have died before impact. He was actually smiling, as though he'd run into a long lost friend."

Sam had hit a stone wall. His last. Only this time, he had demolished it.




High Flight


Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, 

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; 

Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds - 

and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of - 

wheeled and soared and swung high in the sunlit silence. 

Hovering there I've chased the shouting wind along 

and flung my eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long delirious burning blue 

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace, 

where never lark, or even eagle, flew; 

and, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod 

the high untrespassed sanctity of space, 

put out my hand and touched the face of God.


John Gillespie Magee, Jr


© Copyright Rosy Cole 2009 and 2015

Recent Comments
Katherine Gregor
What a heartbreaking story! Have you just written it or is it from an existing collection?
Sunday, 10 May 2015 17:01
Rosy Cole
I've had this knocking around in my old files for about six years, Katia. I don't generally write stories, never having been sure,... Read More
Monday, 11 May 2015 14:28
Stephen Evans
One of the local TV stations used to us that poem as a nightly signoff, back when stations signed off. Both pieces are evocative.... Read More
Sunday, 10 May 2015 20:03
2687 Hits

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Latest Comments

Rosy Cole And in Other News
06 June 2021
Good luck with that! Looks interesting.
Rosy Cole The Art Of The Nations
06 June 2021
Delighted you enjoyed the post, Kevin. I do have most of the Kahlil Gibran books. At least I've cou...
Kevin The Art Of The Nations
06 June 2021
Hello Rosy, this is one of my favorite things from Gibran. Some people love, whilst others hate, Th...
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22 May 2021
We cast our bread upon the water...that is all. It returns to us in many days in translated form. Th...
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12 April 2021
I intend to try with the cap locks on, but in a quiet, subtle kind of way :-)